A Moorland Hanging

by Michael Jecks

  “My mother, Lady Matillida.”

  Watching the elegant woman nod regally, Baldwin was impressed. She looked little older than her son, but must have been in her late thirties to have had a lad of his age. Tall, certainly not less than five feet six, and dark-eyed, she was slim and graceful, with movements as quick and assured as an eagle. She gave Baldwin the definite feeling that she had the bulk of the intelligence in her marriage.

  “My brother, John.” This youth was clearly training to be a soldier. Well-formed, with lighter hair than the others in his family, he had surprisingly clear blue eyes for such a dark colored skin, which flitted over Simon and then passed on to Baldwin with an intensity the knight found curiously unsettling. Then there was one more.

  “My brother’s master, Sir Ralph of Warton.” Slim and elegant in his flowing green tunic, he struck Baldwin as being a well-travelled man. It showed in his calm eyes, dark, hooded eyes under thin eyebrows. He had no visible scars, but Baldwin knew all too well that many men of war carried their battle honors under their clothes, at the points where their armor was weakest. As he studied the knight, Simon introduced them, and as his name and title were given, Baldwin was suddenly aware of his interest being reciprocated. Sir Ralph of Warton was plainly disconcerted by his presence, as if for some reason he had cause to fear Baldwin—or his position.

  Food was brought, bread fresh from the ovens and cold meats, and Simon and Baldwin, as guests, were invited to join the family at their board. Gratefully they accepted, sitting together at the end of the table opposite Sir Ralph. By common consent all avoided mention of the reason for Simon’s visit until the meal was finished, then Matillida, her son John and Sir Ralph all rose and looked enquiringly at Sir Robert, expecting him to join them. He steadfastly refused to meet their eyes, staring instead at his father, who gave a petulant shrug of his shoulders in assent.

  As soon as the other three had left them alone, it was the son who began to set out the case for the return of the wayward villein, his father toying with his empty pewter goblet.

  “So what d’you intend to do, bailiff? We asked the chief warden of Lydford to come and investigate; instead he’s sent you, so what’re you going to do? This leaching away of our villeins must be halted or we’ll be ruined.”

  “It’s difficult, of course,” said Simon soothingly.

  “The chief warden asked me to come and talk it through with you. But you understand the difficulties. Your villein’s now a miner, a stanner, and—”

  “We know all that! The question is, what’re you going to do to get him back? If the Manor can’t produce food, we’ll have no money: we’ll be unable to pay our taxes. Mark my words, if this miserable cur gets away with his disloyalty, others will soon follow his example.”

  “Yes, but the stanners have ancient rights—” Simon sighed as he was interrupted again.

  “You don’t need to tell me of them! I was born here, I know about the stannary privileges. This isn’t the same. Peter Bruther’s no tinner. He’s not digging for peat or tinning. He’s just sitting in his new cottage and enjoying doing nothing. Don’t take my word for it, go and see for yourself!”

  Speaking patiently, Simon said, “Even if I did, what good would it do? It makes no difference whether I see him lazing around or not. As far as the law’s concerned, he’s no longer your responsibility now, so…”

  “None of our responsibility?” The boy’s voice rose to a shout. “He’s our villein, and the law’s allowing him to run away! Just to satisfy a few thugs on the moors…”

  “And the King,” Baldwin interjected mildly.

  Sir Robert shot him a glance of loathing. His voice shook with contempt as he sneered: “The King? That runt! What—”

  “Be silent, Robert.” His father leaned forward at last, resting his elbows on the table. Like others Baldwin had known with wounded cheeks, the old knight had a slight lisp as if his tongue was damaged. He looked tired, and Baldwin was sure that it was not his idea to send to the chief warden for help. “Now, bailiff, you know my son is right. Something has to be done; I cannot allow my villeins to fade from my lands. What will the position of the chief warden be if I go and fetch this man Bruther back?”

  “You mustn’t,” Simon said bluntly. “If you do, the miners will be within their rights to prevent you, and the chief warden doesn’t want a fight.”

  “You will do nothing to help us, then?”

  Simon held up his hands in a gesture of despondency. “What do you want me to say, sir? Do you want me to lie? To promise something you know I can’t offer? I’ve got no massive force to call on, I’m merely the King’s man here—and I can’t sanction any breaking of the law. Bruther has the law on his side. If you try to get him back, I must tell you I’ll have to support the miners if they want to stop you. But you already know that. Look—if you wish, I can try to lend some support to your plight by writing…”

  “So, after many years of looking after the King’s interests, I must now accept the loss of my principal wealth, is that it?”

  “This man has gone. Forget him. He’s effectively a free man now, owning his own land for mining.”

  “Bailiff.” Sir Robert Beauscyr leaned forward, and his voice hissed as he spoke. “As far as I’m concerned, that man’s still our villein, and our villeins own nothing! They’ve use of some of our property while we let them, and that’s all. If they own anything, it’s their bellies and their hunger. Nothing else.”

  “Sir William.” Simon ignored his son’s outburst.

  “There’s nothing I can say will change the facts.”

  “No, there isn’t, is there?” said Sir Robert, and rising suddenly so that his chair slammed over, he glared at Simon. “But I’m not prepared to see my inheritance fail because of the stupidity of the law—and its officials! If you’ll not help us, we must sort out the issue ourselves!” And he swept from the room before Simon could answer.

  For a moment, all three were silent. Baldwin’s eyes were on the curtain, still fluttering after Sir Robert’s angry passage, when he heard Sir William speak quietly, his tone thoughtful.

  “He’s very worried, as we all are. Out here in the moors, it’s hard enough to keep the peasants working without losing the young ones who hope to gain their freedom and make a good quantity of money in the process.”

  “Yes, I understand the problem, but what can I do? As bailiff, I must uphold the law.”

  “And you think this is the way to do it? In God’s name!” He turned to Simon in despair. “I stopped my son from saying anything villainous about him, but—Christ Jesus!—the King cannot control the people. Look at affairs in Bristol—only two years ago, the city had to be assaulted with artillery because they refused to pay taxes due to the Crown. In the countryside, trailbaston is a growing problem, and outlaws are springing up everywhere. Villeins dare open rebellion. Nowhere do people want to obey the law; they all hold the King in contempt since Bannockburn. What’ll happen to us if this man is allowed to get away? We could have an uprising here, in my Manor. The villeins could decide to revolt—and what would you do then, bailiff? Would you come and apologize to my corpse? And to the bodies of my wife and sons?”

  There was nothing Simon could say, and after a moment the old knight’s gaze dropped to his hands. He had hoped for some help, something constructive, but it was obvious that he would get nothing from the warden or his bailiff. As the miners well knew, they had power and the strength of the law behind them. There was nothing more he could do—all was now in God’s own hands. Slowly he stood and walked from the room, suddenly feeling his age. He must at the least stop his eldest son from behaving foolishly and provoking the miners.

  When the curtain had fallen behind Sir William, Baldwin heard a heavy sigh. Glancing at the bailiff, the knight gave him a wry smile. “I think I begin to comprehend your trepidation about our visit here.”

  Simon grunted. Then, looking quickly at the curtained doorway, he stood. “Let’s go and hav
e a look round the Manor. This room makes me nervous. I feel like a prisoner waiting for the jailer to return.”

  Once more in the courtyard, Simon took a deep breath of the warm, peat-tainted fresh air. He had expected the Beauscyrs to be angry, but that did not make it any easier. After all, he was in agreement with them, and he had no wish to be responsible for any harm to them should they be attacked by their villeins in an uprising. His friend’s sympathetic voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Come now, Simon. There is nothing else you can do for them. As you said, Peter Bruther is legally entitled to stay there if he wants.”

  “I know, I know, but that hardly helps. After all, like Sir William said, a Manor is only as good as its workforce, and if the villeins here find they can ignore their lord’s will, they’ll lose respect for him—and that can only lead to rebellion.”

  Baldwin waved a hand at the buildings ringing the yard. “You need not fear for Beauscyr overmuch,” he said dryly. “Look at this place! It would take the posse of the county to break in here.”

  Simon could see what his friend meant. From inside, the defenses could be better appreciated, and appeared even more impressive. Apart from the tall walls, the storehouses beneath the main hall looked full. Judging from the number of men bustling around, there was a fair complement of guards as well as the servants. Simon pointed with his chin at a couple standing idly near the gates. “Looks like the Beauscyrs can afford their own army.”

  Following his gaze, Baldwin nodded slowly. “Yes, well, it’s no surprise. Sir William was a soldier with the King for a number of years. He was known to have captured several of Edward’s enemies, so he must have made a lot of money from ransoming them. And no doubt he won plenty of loot.”

  There was a cynical note to his voice. “What is it?” Simon asked. “You used to fight—you must have taken captives and won your own loot. It’s the spoils of war which make it worthwhile, after all. No one would bother to join an army unless there was a reward.”

  Baldwin smiled but said nothing. Because they rarely discussed his time as a Knight Templar it would be difficult for the bailiff, so strongly rooted in the secular world as he was, to understand that the Templars had fought not for profit but for God. When they gained wealth, it was not for an individual, but used to enrich the Order so that it could continue to perform its vital function of protecting pilgrims in the Holy Land. All else was unimportant compared with that holy task. But then, the Knights of the Order were not worldly soldiers fighting for their own profit; they were the vanguard of Christ, the warrior monks. Their chivalric code made the concept of mercenary soldiering distasteful to Baldwin.

  “Come, my friend. Let’s go back inside,” he said quietly. “At least we will be returning to Lydford tomorrow.”

  “Yes, but I’ll not be allowed to forget this issue, I’m sure. With a young man like Sir Robert Beauscyr involved, who feels his inheritance is threatened, this matter will be bound to come up again before long.”

  Standing on the castle walls above the gate the following morning, watching the two men ride away, Sir Robert Beauscyr was filled with righteous indignation. He had always had faith in the rule of the law, had believed it gave protection to those who needed it, and was convinced his family had right on their side. It was not just unfair that Peter Bruther should be allowed to escape justice, it was wrong. Worse was the fact that any attempt to put things right would mean breaking the law.

  “So, brother. No satisfaction there.”

  John had stepped quietly to his side and was also staring at Baldwin and Simon as they cantered up the gentle slope. Sir Robert could not resist a scornful jibe.

  “All alone for once, John? Where’s your master, Sir Ralph?”

  “Oh, he wanted to go for a ride to see the moors.” He gave his brother a faintly amused, questioning look, but then half-shrugged as though Robert’s mood was to be expected, and was, in any case, of little consequence. “So, the bailiff will not help. That seems certain.”

  His brother nodded angrily. “What’s the point of the law if it’ll not uphold what’s right and good?”

  “Ah, but this time the law has to try to find a way between the interests of a small family in the moors and the King.”

  His dry sarcasm made Sir Robert stare. “What do you mean? Our father, and his before him, have aided the kings of England in all the wars over the last fifty years. We’ve the same interests as the King. He must know that.”

  “Are you certain about that?” Now John’s voice was scornful. “From what I hear, this King of ours is too weak to choose what tunic to wear of a morning. All he wants is money so he can show largesse to his friends—and the miners give him that money. What are we worth? And how much can he value our loyalty when he has the choice of great lords—the pick of men such as Aymer de Valence and Thomas of Lancaster? Does he need the Beauscyr family to protect him as well?”

  Irritably gesturing with his hand as if slapping at the suggestion, Sir Robert snapped, “Rubbish! The King knows who his real friends are. It’s the knights in the shires like us who are his real guards, the men he needs to call on in time of war, not—”

  “Brother, brother, please! Can you really believe that? The King cannot be stupid enough to think it. The knights who, as you say, he calls on when there are battles to be fought, are either abroad and earning money fighting with the Pisans or the Venetians or any others who will pay, or they are loyal to their lord before their King. After all, who do most knights give their word of allegiance to? The King or their local magnate? Anyway, Edward does not even need to worry about that here. Here his choice is very clear: does he support the miners, who provide him with many tons of tin and the taxes they produce, or does he side with a few knights whose lands border the moors, and whose wealth can only be measured in a few pounds?”

  “In fairness he must—”

  “Oh, no! Life is not fair. The King, God bless him, is forced to look to his own and the kingdom’s good. I fear that our father—and you—weigh rather low in his estimation compared with the tin miners.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Sir Robert, stung by the sarcasm. “You know the King needs men like us, we’re the backbone of the kingdom. Where would he be without the knights and—”

  “Who’s that?”

  The sudden concentration on his brother’s face made Sir Robert wheel round to the view. A pair of riders approached down the slope from the west. He frowned as he tried to make out the figures. “Good God! It’s that miner, Thomas Smyth, and his henchman. What do they want here?”

  “I have no idea,” said John imperturbably, his eyes fixed on the horsemen. “But as the heir to the Manor, I’m sure you’ll know soon enough.”

  Muttering an oath, Sir Robert spun on his heel and strode to the staircase in the small tower at the corner of the stables. This was just one more cause for concern. The miners were a constant irritation, and any visit from them was unlikely to be for social purposes, as Sir Robert knew.

  Curious to see how the meeting went, John remained up on the wall where he could see down into the courtyard. From his vantage point he had a clear view of the reception. The old tinner dropped from his horse, tossing the reins to his servant with a haughty flick of his wrist, plainly feeling there was no danger to him even here in the stronghold of his enemy, John saw with some surprise. Sauntering across the yard, the visitor left his servant and made his way to the hall’s steps, at the top of which stood Sir William, his face grim. They met and said a few words at the door, then passed inside. A few moments later Sir Robert emerged from the stable block, rushed to the hall and stormed inside.

  It was possible to hear what was being said inside the hall from the top of the steps, and for an instant John toyed with the idea of eavesdropping. Here was an opportunity for harmless fun, the chance of overhearing something with which he could prick his brother’s pride…but the embarrassment if he was caught outweighed the potential for any advantage
. He shrugged and put the meeting from his mind. It was hot on the wall, and he was about to leave and fetch himself a pint of ale when he heard the raised voices.

  It was obvious that there was a heated debate going on. He could make out his father’s voice, apparently raised in an attempt to calm someone, then the hoarse bellow of his brother: “You can’t—I won’t allow it! This is madness, complete madness! You want to take this foreigner’s word—it goes against all reason! I won’t have it!”

  There was more in a similar vein, and John could see that the miner’s servant found it as intriguing as he did. At the first shout, he wavered visibly, undecided whether to go to the hall or not. With one hand on his dagger, the other pulling at his bottom lip, the man soon reached a decision and began to move toward the hall, but before he could cross the yard, the door was thrown open and Sir Robert hurtled out, rushing down the steps and across the cobbles to the stables. There he shoved a slow-moving ostler to his horse. Under his bellowed orders it was saddled and bridled, and then he mounted and galloped through the gate, off up the slope before the Manor.

  John watched dumbfounded until his brother had disappeared among the trees at the brow of the hill, then he turned back to the courtyard. At the top of the steps stood his father, the tinner in the doorway behind him. He could see the quick motion of the miner’s hand, the slow loosening of the servant’s grip on his dagger’s hilt, but most of all what John saw, and what made him smirk secretly to himself, was the expression of despair on his father’s face as he stared after his oldest son.

  –4–

  With the troubles caused by outlaws, Sir Ralph had decided to take the advice of his host and bring a man-at-arms with him on this ride. He was also aware, after talking to his young squire, that there was another good reason for bringing someone along with him who knew the area—for Dartmoor could be a dangerous place even in the middle of summer. Bogs proliferated, and often trapped unwary travellers as well as the sheep and cattle of the moormen. Even so, in the warm sunshine it was hard to be too fearful, and he soon threw off his feelings of caution and began to canter, enjoying the sensation of the wind pulling urgently at his cloak and the feeling of precise, elegant power in his horse’s stride. He was not dressed for war, clad only in his riding clothes of hose and a simple tunic of green wool, thin and cool. There had been no need to bring his great horse. Today he rode his palfrey, a light-framed roan mare who ate up the miles with eager joy.